Those days leading up to that confrontation were barely even coherent to him.
Alan walked the corridors of the prestigious Gen 1 Academy, clad in the standard uniform, a bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.
The faint hum of training tech and clashing blades echoed from the practice rooms, a chorus of sparks and effort. Students moved with lethal precision, their motions fluid, honed.
He closed his eyes for a moment, blocking it all out. He didn't want to see the future he could never quite reach.
As he reached a doorway, he caught a glimpse of Lyra— his childhood best friend—surrounded by other students. She barely looked at him. Her friends smirked, half-mocking, half-dismissive.
Something in Alan's chest tightened, but he forced himself to step past and enter the room beyond.
Inside, a white-haired, bearded man sat behind a desk. His face was carved from years of discipline and disappointment. Alan set his bag down, shoulders stiff, and moved to a seat opposite him.
The man inhaled, placing a sleek, data-laden interface between them. Its soft glow illuminated his hardened features.
"Now, Alan…looking at your file here…" His voice was calm, but there was weight behind it.
Alan felt his stomach twist.
"You've had ten enhancement surgeries. Four of them caused permanent nerve damage. Two left your reflexes slower than projected. Your cardiovascular implants… have a 12 percent rejection rate, and your skeletal reinforcement failed three times— fractures that should never have healed on their own. Your bio-sensory upgrades? Half of them were rejected. Your hands—these scars—are the proof."
Alan's fists tightened until his knuckles whitened.
"Alan, you are a gifted kid. More gifted than most students here," the man said slowly.
"However…your body has rejected a lot of modifications. I cannot, in good conscience, graduate you to the Gen 2 Academy. It's too dangerous."
Alan's stomach turned.
"Sir…there has to be another way. I can—"
"I'm afraid it isn't really in my hands," the man interrupted, his face unreadable.
"The board decides who transcends and who doesn't. They reviewed your case… and, well, they don't believe you have what it takes."
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating.
"Being a warrior for the empire isn't the greatest life," the man continued, his tone softer now.
"It's dangerous. Right now you have the opportunity to settle down… find a wife… have a nice house at the edge of—"
"I can't do that, sir." Alan cut in, voice cold, unflinching.
"Please…do whatever you can. I need your help with this," he added, voice pleading now.
"Itll mean a lot. This—..this means a lot. I can't just give up."
The bearded man frowned. A long silence passed.
Then he spoke, almost reluctantly.
"I'm doing this because I knew your father."
His eyes darkened.
"There's a project the Empire runs… to fish out young talent, even if they weren't from the Gen 1 Academy. They call it the Stellar Vanguard Initiative. A mission to capture a dwarf planet the Empire has set its eyes on."
Alan raised an eyebrow, heart quickening.
"It'll be you… and a few others. Succeed, and you'll receive a full-ride scholarship to the Gen 2 Academy."
Hope flared in Alan's eyes. "Really?"
"But it's dangerous," the man warned. "If your father were still alive, he wouldn't allow me to recommend you on this. There are risks… more than you can imagine."
Silence fell again.
"But I know how much this means to you," he added finally.
Alan's chest rose, his posture straightening. A grin spread across his face—bright, uncontainable.
"I won't let you down, sir."
The man nodded. "The details will be in your inbox by tonight. Be ready."
Alan left the room with a new fire in his step, the hum of the academy now sounding less like mockery and more like a battlefield waiting for him to claim.
Confidence hummed in his veins—but it never lasted long.
"Hey, Alan! They finally decide to expel you!?"
Laughter echoed behind him. Lyra's posse, faces twisted with amusement. Alan kept walking, shoulders stiff, eyes forward.
He didn't let his mind dwell on how much had changed. Pain and rejection lingered too close for comfort.
"Useless piece of shit!"
The words struck like a blade, but he didn't falter. Instead, he exhaled slowly, anger simmering beneath the surface as he rounded the corridor.
"I'll show them…" he muttered under his breath, teeth grinding.
Another corner approached, and he collided with something soft. A woman tumbled to the ground, a holographic tablet clattering beside her. She rubbed her head, wincing.
Alan's eyes narrowed. Her uniform was different—plain, understated. She must've been part of one of the weaker sects.
Blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, a graceful figure. Beautiful.
Instinct told him she was another privileged student, someone who'd bought her way into the Gen 1 Academy. His chest tightened with annoyance, but he forced his posture straight. He wasn't here to scorn anyone—certainly not her.
He held out a hand.
She hesitated…then accepted it, fingers brushing his. Her lips parted, but no words came.
Silence filled the corridor, thick and suffocating.
Alan was about to step past her—
"W—wait! Please don't go… I need your help with something.."
He stopped, brow furrowing.
"My name is Elodie Griffin… I don't really know where I'm going—" Her words stumbled out, nervous, unsure.
Griffin. Rich. Privileged.
He was right.
"I need to know where to sign up for the Interstellar Initiative—?"
Something twisted in Alan's chest.
"They'd accept you in the program?" The words slipped before he could stop them.
She smiled, unaware of the storm she'd just ignited.
She laughed nervously, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Well… yeah. A lot of people like me are going. After all…"
A pause. She blinked at him, cheerful, clueless.
"It's for less gifted people who'll do whatever it takes to get into the Gen 2 Academy."
The words landed like a punch. Blood surged hot in Alan's veins. He clenched his jaw, brushing past her to mask the frustration clawing at his chest.
"It's over there," he said, pointing—intentionally in the wrong direction.
Elodie didn't notice, or perhaps she didn't care. She beamed, bright and oblivious.
Alan resumed walking, teeth gritted.
For the less gifted, huh?
A smirk tugged at his lips, bitter but determined.
This mission… it'll be easy. I'm still strong enough.
He was going to show them all, or…at least he'd hoped to.
But as he rounded the next corridor, a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye—a shadow slipping between walls, faster than any human could move. He froze.
No… that can't be.
A soft hum, almost imperceptible, vibrated in the air. Something was watching. Waiting.
Alan's pulse quickened. He didn't know it yet, but the Stellar Vanguard Initiative was more than a simple test of skill. And whatever—or whoever—was out there, it wasn't human.
The corridor seemed to stretch longer, the hum growing louder. His instincts screamed.
Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered—not his own. Not quite mechanical, not quite alive:
"Host… potential… required."
Alan's jaw tightened. He had thought this mission would be simple. That he could walk in, claim a prize, and secure his place at the Gen 2 Academy.
He was wrong.
The shadows shifted again. This time, closer.
And Alan knew— without seeing it— that nothing in the academy had prepared him for what was waiting.
Not even close.